


It.  Hurts.

by saint_troll



Series: Imperfect Armament Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene: My Bloody Valentine, cannibalistic ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:58:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saint_troll/pseuds/saint_troll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Sam had to be locked up in Bobby’s panic room because he relapsed when they encountered Famine, wouldn’t Castiel suffer from withdrawals as well?  How would his hunger manifest itself if he denies his vessel the burgers and raw meat he’d previously consumed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It.  Hurts.

Dean keeps giving Castiel sidelong glances. And Castiel? Castiel knows he’s staring, knows he shouldn’t be, but can’t help himself. He can see the shifting of muscles beneath the shirt stretched over the hunter’s wide shoulders. He can hear the pulse of the blood flowing through so many arteries, veins, and capillaries. He can smell how similar mankind is to the other creatures walking the earth. He has to eat. He wants to eat. He craves it, yearns for it; his vessel is thrumming with need for it.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean inquires carefully. As if instinct has kicked in, he doesn’t move any closer. He’s keeping his distance. It’s one of the more intelligent things the man’s done, Castiel considers as he wills his vessel to stay where he’s standing.

“No, Dean. I am not okay.” His voice is more harsh than usual. Castiel finds himself flinching at it as such. 

As he attempts to turn his attention away from temptation, he catches sight of himself in a window. Night has fallen upon Bobby’s home and the dark pitch of the sky has rendered the glass pane into a nearly perfect mirror. Castiel’s eyes are sunken and red; his face gaunt. His vessel looks as if it is starving where he stands. But that can’t be correct. With Castiel as a host, Jimmy’s body should not want for such things as… flesh.

He catches Dean’s worried gaze in the reflection. He doesn’t look away. Hunger flares in his gut and Castiel finds himself trembling at the raw need behind it. And that is all that it takes for the hunter to break.

Dean is behind him in seconds. His right hand presses over Castiel’s forehead as a frown etches itself into his own. Whimpering at the hot and heady press of skin to his, Castiel clenches his jaw shut in defiance. He will not give in to such base needs.

“You’re sweating like a whore in chu…” Dean begins to say only to cut himself off with a frown. Any other time, Castiel would be commending him for finally catching the blaspheme before it finished falling from his lips. But this isn’t any other time. Instead, he nods quickly and pulls away from Dean’s touch. 

Raking his tongue over teeth he’d never given much mind to, Castiel seeks out the remnants of anything that might be left from the raw meat at the diner. It’s not surprising when his efforts manifest as fruitless. It inspires him to consider the option of an angel proof panic room to match the demonic one in Bobby’s basement. Father knows, he could use one right now.

He watches Dean in the glass as he exits the room. His absence eases the hunger only slightly. After all, he can still smell and hear him. But any reprieve is better than no reprieve. Castiel pinches his eyes tightly closed and lets out a stuttered and needy breathe now that his witness has departed. He is still draped in this self inflicted darkness when he hears the hunter re-enter the room and approach his position. 

Making no attempt to move, Castiel roots himself to the floor and tries to temper the ache of hunger consuming his vessel. Dean is getting closer and closer. And the images flashing through his head are damnable: Blood, flesh, meat and bone are everywhere; the obstinate spark in the hunter’s eyes is dead. Nothing that Michael could not repair, he thinks darkly.

Castiel snarls as he pushes away from the window to face Dean. The startled gasp that passes the man’s lips draw his attention to the moist curl of the tongue lying within his mouth. He’s seconds from warning Dean from such proximity when a wet cloth is pressed gingerly to his temple and cheek. This time, Castiel lets out a startled gasp of his own. The cold provides a numbing catalyst to the hunger. “Thank you.” He grunts out in a low, strained tone.

Dean’s frown deepens as he nods. “You should,” He clears his throat. “You should lie down before this drops you.”

Before tonight, if anyone--even a Winchester--had even suggested that something as uncommon to an angel as a fever would get the so called drop on him, Castiel would have insisted very adamantly otherwise. Tonight, however, as the cloth warmed against his skin, he is very willing to admit; Famine got the drop on him. “Yes, Dean.” He acquiesces. 

Ignoring the immediate spikes of need and want that declare themselves when Dean removes the cloth and heads back towards the kitchen, Castiel searches the nearby rooms for a suitable surface to rest his now weakened vessel. Surrounded by half read and still open books, he finds a couch and settles into it with only the most minimal protest voiced at the four walls pressing in around his form. 

And just when he feels like he’s going to go mad from the hunger, Dean returns with a bowl of water and a newly dampened cloth. Castiel blinks up at him but doesn’t speak as the hunter kneels beside him. As the cold seeps into his skin, he almost feels guilty for stealing this respite from Sam. But only almost. 

How did humanity do it? How did they cope with all of these urges battling just beneath the surface? How did they manage to find enlightenment above the other beasts on their plane of existence? Castiel was just beginning to realize how very unique and wonderful mankind was and, of course, it was happening at the end of times. He’d taken too long, had been too shy to walk the earth as he had with the Winchesters before. The safety of heaven had always pressed him to request assignments from his garrison that were not planetside. It hadn’t been until the first seal was broken that he’d sought a worldly vessel. He regretted that now.

“Better?” Dean asks as he dips the heat dried cloth into the bowl of water. 

Castiel watches him wring it out and fold it into a square. He doesn’t speak until the fabric is pressed to his skin once more. “Yes.” He wishes to thank him, thank the hunter, again and again. But such an abundant expression of gratitude feels like overkill. Instead, Castiel sighs deeply. And even though Dean’s wrist is inches from his mouth, the visions of consuming him have faded into memory. For this, Castiel is truly thankful.

***

Hours pass. Bobby checks up on them before informing them of his intent to sleep. Castiel expects Dean to depart for this reason soon as well. He’s been considering if pressing the cloth to his own face will have the same calming effect as when Dean does it. But the opportunity doesn’t seem to avail itself. 

Dean is folding the cloth into a narrow rectangle and pressing it up and under Castiel’s jaw when a truly vicious pang of hunger cuts through him. His limbs moving faster than most men can see, Castiel grabs Dean’s arm and presses it to his mouth with a desperate and humiliated cry. He’s shaking visibly when his senses return. His lips are pressed obscenely to the pulse point of the hunter’s wrist. Blessedly so, the flesh has not been ripped into by his teeth. Above him, Dean is breathing fast and heavy. His pupils are dilated and his eyes are shifting between Castiel’s mouth on him and the angel’s penetrating gaze. “Cas?” He breathes out roughly.

Castiel is beginning to wonder if this is what damnation feels like when his vessel moves out of what he feels is its own accord. He flattens his tongue against the flesh beneath his open mouth then curls the muscles. The taste is indescribable. Pursing his lips, Castiel kisses Dean’s skin. He closes his eyes to the shame of it and turns his face finally away from the searing touch. It is strange. He can almost sense the pain drawing over his features.

“What the hell, Cas?” Dean whispers into the dark above him. He’s removed the cloth and returned it damper this time. 

Hell. That wouldn’t exactly be imprecise. He’s wholly aware of the unimaginable torment created and acted upon in the pit. He’s also mindful of the fact that this unnatural longing doesn’t compare to the tortures below. But fending off the urge to devour Dean is tearing at the fabric of his very being. Vessel or no, Castiel is very well acquainted with the fact that he won’t walk away from the events of this night unchanged. The pain of denial threatens to overcome him. He looks back at him and plainly states. “It. Hurts.”

The curve of Dean’s brow morphs into a sympathetic arch. It’s no secret that the humans in Castiel’s company are no strangers to suffering. Slowly this time, he reaches for Dean’s arm. Turning it ever so slightly, he presses the back of the hunter’s knuckles to his cheek. The rush of blood beneath the skin is no less heady than before. This time, however, the press of Dean’s skin against his own dulls the steady ache. Castiel hums in appreciation.

Dean’s breathing has become erratic above him. When he finds the courage to meet his eyes, Castiel is overcome by the ravenous compulsions transforming. The urges pulling at his vessel are suddenly more akin to lust than hunger. “Dean.” He gasps. His other hand has found purchase on the back of the hunter’s neck before he even realizes that he’s moving. Dean falls against him with a surprised grunt. 

Shifting his hand from the side of Castiel’s face, Dean drags his knuckles under his chin. The tell of the hunter’s own internal struggle is betrayed by the wetness in his eyes. Castiel finds himself wishing he could drowned in the sudden influx. Palm now pressed to his other cheek, Dean draws their faces closer. A steady stream of -need, want, more, more, more- is coursing through his vessel so strongly that Castiel is sure that without his presence, Jimmy’s body would have fallen at the intensity. 

It reeks of demonic ritual, but Castiel finds himself pulling Dean the final few inches closer. When their lips touch, the hunger burns bright. A moan heavy with bewilderment escapes him as he shifts to capture Dean’s mouth in another hungry kiss. It feels savage and wonderful; phenomenally human. 

“Cas.” Dean breathes out. Nipping at the plump contour of his bottom lip, Castiel allows an indistinct sound of questioning to pass before he’s kissing him again.

“Cas?” He’s more forceful this time. Fingers woven through the angel’s hair, Dean pulls him back far enough that reinitiating contact will take a little fight. “What?” He swallows loudly. “What are you doing?”

“It hurts.” It’s repetitive. He’s already explained this. Castiel arches up in an attempt to rejoin their mouths.

“Yeah. You said that. But… what?” 

Castiel can almost taste the shame threatening to lay ruin to Dean’s peace of mind. “This makes it… better.” He barely pauses before pulling roughly against the grip in his hair. The press of their lips together again after only seconds apart feels exquisite. He’d give anything to stay like this until the hunger completely subsides.

When Dean begins to lick his way past Castiel’s lips, he falls apart all over again. Burying his hands in the hunter’s hair, he allows him entry. And the hunger he believed quelled before erupts anew. Mimicking the curl and press of Dean’s tongue against his own, Castiel finds the desperation once again pacified. 

***

The drag and scrape of razor shorn hair pulls at the now delicate corners of Castiel’s mouth. He’d lost track of the passing of time long ago. The urgency of the encounter is diminishing with each shallow breath. Pressing now chaste kisses along the outline of Dean’s lips, Castiel sighs and slumps back onto the couch. Above him, the hunter looks a complete mess. There’s a curious cut to his gaze as he takes in the aftermath. 

There is absolutely nothing that can be offered in exchange for redemption; so Castiel remains silent. He finds himself once again questioning what his brothers and sisters would think of him cavorting with a lesser being. And if he’s brutally honest with himself, Castiel is more than a little ashamed of taking advantage of his closest friend planetside. 

Color flooding his cheeks when he speaks, Dean’s voice is thick in his throat. “Is the pain gone?”

Castiel nods meekly. He moves to grip Dean’s hand in thanks but thinks better of it. 

The hunter nods as he searches Castiel’s face. He gives in after a moment and reaches blindly for the forgotten bowl of water. “I’m gonna…” Dean tilts his head towards the kitchen but doesn’t finish the thought. He licks his lips. A thoughtful expression passes over his face before he’s shaking his head and standing. 

Castiel doesn’t ask if he’s coming back. He sees himself elsewhere. He sees himself on task. He sees himself as God’s soldier and just like that Bobby’s house is nothing more than a memory until the next time he encounters the Winchesters.


End file.
